


Inktober but words- title in progress

by Izamania



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: More characters to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-11-09 07:56:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izamania/pseuds/Izamania
Summary: 1st October means Inktober so I'm writing a story a day (hopefully) using the official prompts as, well, prompts.I might do other fandoms than just LOTR, Silm and The Hobbit, but for now that's all I'm doing.In the future, I might open this for prompts, gifts ect.Each Inktober will be around 500 words, so not long at all-in my defence, I have education.





	1. Ring-Inktober 2019

**Author's Note:**

> Inktober!!!  
Sorry for being dead- got two Silm fics in ye olde google docs and *gasp* I'm working on an ATLA and a V:LD fic.

It was, Sauron thought, sad that the most notable accomplishment of his life, had in fact, been designed by an  _ elf.  _ But, never mind the circumstances, the ring, golden and perfect, scored with orcish writing in elvish hand, was his and his alone.

His new banner saw to that. 

It had been fun, toying with the minds of the Numenorians, planting ideas that grew and grew until they were no longer abstract thoughts, the discarded toys of a bored god, but a full on imperialistic religion, and who better to be the spokesperson of that religion, than himself.

Celebrimbor had been a fool, too besotted with golden words and handsome visages to see the truth when it was laid bare- a fire maiar who was not Arien of the sun and flame, and supposedly not twisted by Morgoth, a master smith, second only to the cursed Feanorians and Aule himself, in Beriland-but that was the beauty of mortals and elves, they believed what you wanted them to believe and listened to what you wanted them to. 

It was so funny, that it was almost sad to see Celebrimbor, the last of the Feanorians (except that singer who could once move mountains) running at his feet, like a hound to its master-like the dogs Celebrimbor's uncle had been so fond of.

But the ring, it was perfect. Half of his soul, half of his power magnified, almost a key, almost The key. The fool Feanorian had never known what he was creating, until it was too late.

It was fun to see Numenor fall, to feel the power of Illuvatar, like the heady incense they once burnt to honour him. It was less fun to feel the powerful draw of the Silmaril that rested in the sea, less fun indeed. But he had never been a  masochistic fool like Morgoth, holding the Silmarils every day despite the burns and corrosion that came from evils touch upon them. 

He had never felt the fear of the grave, because he was immortal, and the void was full of all the evils, and he was a sadist like no other.

The ring though, he felt pain at just the thought of losing it. It was part of the key- and it would not be a key if it didn’t have all its parts. 

That was why, when Isildur swung wildly upwards, he screamed, he had forgotten over the ages that the little, puny mortals could still injure his physical form. He had forgotten how Fingolfin had lamed his master, had forgotten how Luthien had sung her way into their fortress, had stolen in like a thief in the night, so he reacted, ripped his way free of the form he was bound in and fled, leaving his ring, his precious ring, alone and surrounded by survivors of the first age who agreed to one last fight, surrounded by loremasters and impulsive men. 

He hid. Hid and waited for his ring to come back, he could feel the power of the three, could feel the last part of the key, so all he needed was his precious ring and his power.


	2. Mindless-Inktober 2019

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahaha  
y'know how I said one a day.....
> 
> Anyway, some evil Valar being evil. :)

They were mindless, really they were. 

He was not doing evil for fun, he was doing what needed to be done. The world should have belonged to them, but He said they had a job to do- he was just having fun at first, so much power, greater than any of his siblings, then it was almost fun watching his little brother ruffle his feathers and try to fix all that he had done, see his sister of the earth and trees and ground cry crystalline tears over the shattered woods he made in his play. It had been so fun to whisper into the ears of the First, to pretend that he was He, and they believed him!

She, the Lady of Darkness and Spider-silk had once the beauty of his sister of the Stars whom he had loved, once. But then his siblings said she looked like a great spider, the sort who would try to eat worlds, and his eldest sister looked upon her creation, and gave his Lady the form of one of her void-creatures. She gave her the form of a spider and gave her a great lust for power and all things that sparkle. 

There had only ever been three elves who seemed to have a fragment of a mind, the first had been Feanor who burnt and burnt in his pain and listened to no one. The second was the eldest son of Feanor, who resisted him, who survived and did not kneel to the Valar and beg for mercy.

The third was Luthien, who, for all her claims that she was good and beautiful, would burn the world down for acknowledgement. 

  
  


They disgusted him-not the ones with minds, but the ones without. There was his faceless army, scarred and broken to his will, the mindless horde who rushed to attack and kill with barely a word from him. It was barbaric, and he hated it, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the knowledge that they would never turn on him, be lying if he said that he didn’t enjoy the sadistic smile on his second as they fought and died and he watched.

He heard news, sometimes, of his Lady. He heard of her children running wild in the forests outside Menegroth, he heard of two little elflings, who carried the light of the Silmaril that escaped in their eyes, heard that the Feanorians had disposed of them and that his Lady had gotten a good meal. 

Before, before a Silmarill was stolen, before Luthien lifted her head out of her precious daddy’s forest, he saw one of his little brothers eagles.

It came down to save one he had taken, came down at the request of a princeling.

It was the last contact he had with his siblings when he saw it. Until his little brother sent down his feathered herald to oust him and throw down his tower. He hadn’t even come himself. 

They were all mindless. Every single one one of them. 


	3. Freeze-Inktober

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha  
Ha  
Ha 
> 
> Apparently bingeing Stranger Things and getting hyped for November (She-Ra and RWBY and The Dragon Prince) is what I decided to do...

Ardhel was not weak, she was not some frail weaver or a feeble noble with only marriage in line for her-with all the time in the world, politics had become sport, and she knew the bitter words of the nobility better than others.

No, she was not weak, so why was she crying?

Why were tears freezing on her cheeks as she trudged along, Itarilles’ screams for her mother-one of the vapid nobles, Ardhel thought, muffled by a gag to keep them safe from the ice beasts that hunted these freezing lands, preying on each other. 

It was hard to fight against the constant whisper in her mind of _ freezejustliedownandsleepfreezeitwouldbebetterthanthis _

It was hard to look at Turgon and see when he had been crying written on his face, drawn out in fading ice crystals and red-raw skin. Hard to see her father, who cursed Feanor as he walked, _ damn him _ echoing out in whispers and harsh lines, like a swords sharp edge, reflecting off of those lamps that hung in the air, Feanor had become the beat by which they walked, every step in defiance, and every death his fault, all his fault. But it was hardest to see Fingon, who was icy, like the blizzard and closed off from them, every step away cutting her like the ice and snow that seemed to surround him. He did not seek shelter in tents lit by firelight, the small fires burning precious wood, or furs, or even, when it had gotten really bad, bodies. 

He stayed out in the cold instead.

She was still crying.

The White Lady of the noldor was crying, every breath drawing in cutting air too quickly, lungs slashed with razor winds and eyes dripping ice. She was the White Lady, who had once hunted with her cousin, who had once kept pace with Huan and the hunters of Orome. 

She had prayed to Nienna that night, prayed for her cousins, for her brother and for herself after Feanor drew a sword and challenged her father.

-If this was mercy, or courage, Ardhel wanted none of it.

She knew that they would be lionized, seen as the heroes, but she also knew that her father followed her uncle out of a desire to finally be equal to Feanor. That her eldest brother was following because of betrayal, and a deep rooted desire to just do something.

At night, she prayed to the Valar, asking them to let her cousins suffer the way she was suffering, to let them know how it felt to lose family, friends and just, just people.

She wanted her cousins to freeze in their own lives, to just know what it was like. She wanted justice for the Teleri, for her family and for herself.

She asked the Valar if they could let Celegorm feel how she had felt. Asked if They could let them all freeze or burn or just curl up and die, but no, they would never die quietly. They would always fight, no matter the cost.

She was the White Lady of the Noldor, and she hunted with sword, spear and prayers. 

And she hoped they would all freeze.

  



End file.
